#brandam

He doesn’t remember much of the rest of the conference. Trouba takes some questions, then Connor, giving Brandon a break. He wonders distantly where Adam is, if he heard Brandon’s declaration---either of them, he thinks with an edge of mild hysteria---and he makes what he hopes are the appropriate responses when the media scrum breaks up and a few reporters corner him for one-on-ones.

It’s Wheels who rescues him, a hand on Brandon’s arm and an apologetic smile to the reporter who was in the middle of a question. “You’ve got a call,” he says. 

Brandon waits until they’re out of earshot. “You know I have a cellphone. You know everyone has a cellphone these days. People don’t ‘get calls’ from landlines anymore.”

“Yeah yeah,” Wheels says, waving this off.

“You’re very old,” Brandon says, driving his point home, and Wheels gives him a dirty look.

“I was going to say there was someone waiting in the hall for you but maybe there isn’t. Maybe he’s not interested in talking to a smartass and decided to just go home.”

Brandon’s already stopped listening.

Adam’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped against it as he waits. His mustache looks even dumber than the last time Brandon saw him.

“Hi,” Brandon says stupidly.

Adam grins at him and Brandon’s world shakes apart and reforms around him. He would burn cities for that smile, he thinks. Conquer small countries. Rescue Helen of Troy, if she still needed rescuing.

“You loo-oove me,” Adam sing-songs, and Brandon freezes.

Helen of Troy can go fuck herself.

Adam pushes off the wall and takes a step closer, towering over Brandon and grinning like a loon. “You said you loved me in front of God, the world, and the media,” he says. “No takebacks.”

“Nothing to take back,” Brandon snaps. "I was referring to my other liney. Not you.”

“Nuh-uh,” Adam says. He falls in step as Brandon starts down the hall. “You were talking about me.”

“I was talking about Coppy,” Brandon says. He walks faster, but damn Adam’s long legs---he keeps pace effortlessly. “He doesn’t torment me into next week.”

“You like it,” Adam says, seemingly unperturbed. They reach the end of the hall and Brandon picks a direction at random.

Hotels all look the same, he thinks. The same bland yet somehow hideously ugly carpet, the same generic prints on the walls, the same hallways that stretch endlessly for miles---

He whirls and shoves Adam in the chest, hard. Caught off-balance, Adam stumbles into the wall, mouth open, but Brandon is there before he can speak, dragging his head down into a bruising kiss.

There’s a heartbeat of frozen stillness and then Adam is kissing him back, wrapping his obscenely long arms around Brandon’s waist and pulling him close, his mouth hot and devouring.

“I hate you,” Brandon pants when they break for air and Adam proceeds to attack his throat. “You drive me crazy, Lows, I just want to---”

“Want to what?” Adam asks, lifting his head.

“Pin you down and shave that god-fucking-awful mustache, for one thing,” Brandon snaps, and Adam laughs out loud. “I wasn’t lying when I said I loved you,” Brandon blurts, and Adam’s laughter cuts off like a switch.

“I know,” he whispers. He brings up one hand and traces the curve of Brandon’s mouth. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Rusty. And I know you’ve loved me back for most of it.”

Brandon shivers under Adam’s finger. “You’re still shaving that mustache,” he warns, and Adam grins at him.

“You’re an idiot,” Brandon says.

“Mmm,” Adam agrees. He’s puttering around the kitchen, making chicken soup for some fucking reason, even though it’s Brandon’s shoulder that’s pulled and he’s not sick. Or, he’s sick of Adam’s hovering, but that’s about it.

“You’re a moron and an idiot, and you deserved that five for fighting,” Brandon continues meanly. He’s also watching Adam’s shoulders move under the hang of his shirt but like, okay, whatever, he deserves that. It’s an old shirt, worn so it’s nearly see-through and it drapes the muscles of Adam’s back unfairly. “I hope Maurice yelled at you about it.”

“Oh, he totally did,” Adam says agreeably, and brings two mugs of chicken soup over.

Brandon can’t help wincing as Adam helps him move to rearrange. The trainers hadn’t put him in a sling which, good sign, but it does make moving without jostling his shoulder difficult. He puts up with it; he’s gonna throw his legs over Adam’s lap and cuddle up as much as he fucking wants to. It’s like, his right as a Canadian or whatever.

Adam winces as he hands over the mug. Brandon sighs and sets his mug aside because it’s nuclear hot anyway and there’s no way he’ll be able to drink it for at least another few minutes.

Adam’s knuckles are bruised, split in a few places. His hands are big and beautiful, in Brandon’s opinion. Beautiful for everything he does with them, for the way he measures out flour for muffins and the way he handles the puck and the way he breaks them fearlessly against anyone that takes a run at his boys. Brandon takes one of Adam’s hands in his good one and turns it over for a moment.

He tells his dick to calm down and draws Adam’s knuckles to his mouth.

Adam’s breath catches when he presses the first careful kiss to the broken skin of the first knuckle of his right hand. He’s staring. His eyes are so big and his pupils blown, dark and vulnerable and surprised.

“Thank you,” Brandon murmurs and Adam makes a noise that’s not quite loud enough to be a whimper but is at least slightly pathetic.

“I,” he says hoarsely and he hasn’t blinked at all. “Yeah. Yes. Of course, I.”

Brandon presses a kiss to the second knuckle and Adam’s eyelashes flutter in a way that’s almost delicate.

“So stupid,” Brandon says quietly, lips moving against Adam’s skin. He wonders if it hurts. If it does, Adam doesn’t seem to mind. “I worry all the fuckin’ time, but. Thank you.”

“They gotta know,” Adam says and his chin is dropping down, eyes so dark and so heavy-lidded. “They can’t do that shit. Not to you. Not to any of us, but not to you.”

Brandon laughs even though it’s not funny because he has no idea what else to do. His heart is thrumming against his ribs. He wants- something. To bite down, maybe.

Adam makes that same noise when Brandon’s teeth press against the third knuckle. It’s a very sweet, very quiet little noise. It’s Brandon’s turn to have his breath catch.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Adam’s skin. Adam flinches, a whole-body motion that jars them both.

Adam sets his mug of soup down on the table next to the couch with a clumsy clatter. Brandon blinks at it slowly. He’d forgotten the soup, and he immediately dismisses it again. He hadn’t even wanted soup anyway. He’d just wanted Adam there, in his reach. Like he is now.

He kisses the fourth knuckle and realizes that Adam’s shaking. It’s a very fine tremor.

“You okay?” he checks in breathlessly, because it’s not like he has any idea what he’s doing but Adam’s staring at him with big, dark eyes and a slack mouth. Adam swallows convulsively, the motion forcing his chin to bob. His eyelashes flutter again, like he wants to look away but can’t break the eye contact.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, at last. He sounds lucid at least. Just kind of- overwhelmed, maybe.

Brandon’s heart is pounding in his chest. He presses the last kiss to Adam’s pinky knuckle. Adam’s hand is warm in his, his skin rough against Brandon’s mouth. He presses his teeth in again.

Adam whimpers. A loud, pitchy little noise.